This week marks two years since I started writing this nightlife column, and oh, what memories I have! There was the time I took a girl to a rave at Funplex only to have her make a booty call on her cell as we left the joint; she went so far as to remove her clothes in front of me and put on sexier gear from her car trunk. Then there was the time I went downtown and a couple of scared, middle-aged white women thought I was following them; they nearly sprinted into heavy traffic to avoid me. That same night, a DJ chewed me out because some rival DJ told him I was trying to "destroy" him. Hey, I didn't say they were fond memories.
But you do end up with a lot of stories in my line of work. This one's my favorite: It was a chilly Tuesday evening in December at a two-story club downtown, the name of which won't be revealed. I was there to check out "industry night," wherein hardworking club folks could enjoy some music and get pleasantly hammered.
The action was happening mainly upstairs, so that's where I went. Nothing appeared unusual. A DJ stood behind a pair of turntables at the front of the room; classy, attractive types danced and mingled; and a guy painted a mural. These days, club owners and promoters always have a guy painting a mural, "creating" like he's Peter friggin' Max or something.
I ventured out to the balcony, where I began to notice that there were lesbian couples making out in nearly every corner of the place. It seemed that this industry night attracted its fair share of females who dealt in the love that dare not speak its name. And it was on this night that I finally came to terms with something I've tried to suppress for many years: Lesbians turn me on.
Anyway, me and some other guy were taking in the sight of two women enjoying themselves a mere five inches away, when another very drunk woman walked over and broke up their session. "I know you called me a bitch," the inebriated, frumpy lesbian told her gorgeous, leather-clad partner-in-orientation, who was still holding on to her equally delicious gal pal. "Come on, bitch, let's go!"
The belligerent one, who also accused the leather lesbian of urinating in her drink, could barely keep her balance, but sure enough, she was ready to start swinging. She was throwing her fists of fury in the general vicinity of her target, and a few of them actually made contact, but they weren't furious enough to leave a permanent mark. I, along with my fellow male ogler, intervened, and the attacker was escorted off the balcony. The leather lesbian went back inside to get a drink and cool off.
After about five minutes of watching some young patrons spit onto the police car below the balcony, the leather lesbian returned with the bloodiest split lip I've ever seen on a woman. Her right hand was under her chin to catch all the blood. Apparently, the drunk lesbian finally took a swing that mattered.
Her girlfriend immediately spirited her away to the bathroom, and since there wasn't much else to see, I followed suit. As I was washing my hands in the men's room, I kept hearing a telltale snorting sound coming from one of the stalls behind me. The middle stall door finally opened, and a busboy from one of the restaurants on the block emerged with a crazed look on his face and enough mud on the bottom of his shoes to dirty up the entire bathroom floor. On our way out, just out of curiosity, I tapped the guy on the shoulder and politely asked him, "Is everything all right?"
The busboy flipped. "You wanna start some shit?" he snarled, as he took up an I-wish-a-muthafucka-would stance. We were right next to the stairs, so I didn't know if this coked-up busboy was going to push me down or if we'd just tumble together. What the hell is wrong with these people -- first the fighting lesbians, now this?
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At that point, I was just trying to avoid ending up with my own hand cupped under a bloody lip. "Take it easy," I told him. "Nah, muthafucka, I ain't gotta take it easy!" he yelled, before emitting a series of Bruce Lee-style shrieks. Apparently, cocaine makes you think you're a martial arts legend. (How did this dude afford this much cocaine anyway? Some asshole must've given it to him instead of a tip.)
Eventually, somebody who works at the bar had the good sense to hold this insane bastard back so I could get outta there. To this day, I don't know if he was joking around, or if he was truly hopped up enough to think he could karate-chop me to pieces.
As I walked outside, the drunk lesbian was cursing out the cops. And gobs of saliva were still falling from the night sky onto the patrol car.
So, what's the moral of the story? Well, shit happens at night. A lot of shit happens at night, and it's my job to cover it all. So whether you're stopping a fight between two lesbians or nearly starting one with a zooted-out dishwasher, you should always have your guard up when you head to the clubs. It ain't all frozen margaritas and bathroom-stall blow jobs out there, folks.